suggested that he probably knew as much of Ellie's movements as
she did, if not more. The sense of disgust which the subject
always roused in her made her look away quickly from his
tolerant smile. She would have given the world, at that moment,
to have been free to tell Nick what she had learned on the night
of their arrival, and then to have gone away with him, no matter
where. But there was Clarissa--!

To fortify herself against the temptation, she resolutely fixed
her thoughts on her husband. Of Nick's beatitude there could be
no doubt. He adored her, he revelled in Venice, he rejoiced in
his work; and concerning the quality of that work her judgment
was as confident as her heart. She still doubted if he would
ever earn a living by what he wrote, but she no longer doubted
that he would write something remarkable. The mere fact that he
was engaged on a philosophic romance, and not a mere novel,
seemed the proof of an intrinsic superiority. And if she had
mistrusted her impartiality Strefford's approval would have
reassured her. Among their friends Strefford passed as an
authority on such matters: in summing him up his eulogists
always added: "And you know he writes." As a matter of fact,
the paying public had remained cold to his few published pages;
but he lived among the kind of people who confuse taste with
talent, and are impressed by the most artless attempts at
literary expression; and though he affected to disdain their
judgment, and his own efforts, Susy knew he was not sorry to
have it said of him: "Oh, if only Streffy had chosen--!"

Strefford's approval of the philosophic romance convinced her
that it had been worth while staying in Venice for Nick's sake;